La Esperanza Ciega
by Beringae
Summary: Sands reflects on his savior as he begins a new life. Rated only for language. [ONE SHOT]


Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or anything else from Once Upon a Time in Mexico.

-

Sands had not run away from Mexico. Dusty streets, blood spilt, risky games, drug cartels, these were his games. His life.

He remembered what this country had brought him, though. Screaming nights and blood and pain. His eyes were gone because of this country. In his mind, however, this was all the more reason to bring Mexico to its knees. 

Oaxaca had always intrigued Sands. Good food, good pork. And so, as soon as he was healed, he had headed off to streets of this city he now walked the streets of, gun in its holster at his hip, in a shirt he hoped was not backwards and shorts he thought were khaki. Sunglasses, always sunglasses.

Barillo was going to die. Sands wanted revenge.

_They took my fucking eyes!_

Sands didn't need a stick or a dog to tell him if he was walking into danger; his hearing had intensified with the loss of his sight. Each room, Sands had discovered, had its own unique sound, and, as a result, he could know after placing one foot in the room whether or not it had furniture or was bare, if it was empty of people, if it was small or large and if it had windows. He walked with one hand slightly in front of his body in a manner so natural that no one seemed to notice it. When crossing the street he moved with the crowd, and if the no one was there he listened to the motors of the cars. He always ordered the same thing at restaurants. He judged a woman's beauty by her scent and her voice, and usually his prognosis based on such things was correct.

The chiclet boy's name was Paco. Having not understood the seriousness of Sands' condition, he'd brought the agent to his mother. His fucking _mother_. And despite the stupidity of the boy's actions, Sands was grateful. He knew that the cartel would have every hospital monitored, every room watched. Barillo had powerful methods of persuasion.

She'd spoken to him in soft, reassuring Spanish that Sands, of course, had understood perfectly. Sands never told anyone that he spoke Spanish fluently. It was good to be underestimated. She sounded young and sad. He remembered even now that she had soft hands that tried to be gentle as they inflicted more pain upon his body. She smelled like spices and sun and life. Sands learned later that her name was Esperanza.

He'd chuckled through his pain as she cleansed his wounds as best she could.

Hope.

How ironic. Sands had nothing left in terms of hope.

Taking off his sunglasses had been the worst. He'd heard her gasp and grow silent for several minutes.

_"Mis Dios. . . Sea fuerte, señor. __Sea fuerte."___

Be strong.

She'd reached out and held his unmoving body against her warmth. She was womanly and slender, he remembered. Her hair tickled his nose. The embrace wreaked havoc on his control, and he shouted out, his voice hoarse and full of rage.

_"They took my fucking eyes!"_

She stiffened. He knew she'd understood his English. 

If he'd had the ability to cry he would have.

She cried, though, when she found out that her husband had died along with the hundreds of other men during the coup d'état. She came to replace his dressings with tears running down her face. He hadn't known she was crying until a single tear dropped onto his bare chest.

He'd bit through his lip when she cleaned his eyes. 

-

Sands learned to walk again in that house. Three rooms, very little furniture, smelled of cooking and of her. Barefoot with arms waving around in front of him, listening to her voice as she guided him. He would growl and snap hurtful words at her.

_"I don't need your fucking help, bitch. __No me ayudas, entiendes?"_

She never listened. She never left him.

_"Fuck you."_

_"No, señor. Venido a mí, sí? Solamente un poco más lejos. Entonces usted puede descansar."_

Come to me. Only a little further. Then rest.

He was glad she took his gun. He would have shot her in between the eyes rather than hear her voice again on those days when he struggled to move one step.

-

Sands kissed her once, on a night when he'd woken up screaming and with images of sharp metal and red pain in his mind. She came running in. He could hear her bare feet slapping against the floor as she ran. 

_"Qué es, señor?"_

_"Nada."_

_"Estás seguro?"_

_"S____."___

Fuck you. Get away from me. Leave me the fuck alone.

She'd checked his bandages; they'd come loose in his struggle. Her breath was warm across his chest as she bent towards him. He tried to imagine what she looked like.

The brown skin of the native Mexicans. Hair that he knew from how in brushed across his skin now was past shoulder length. He guessed wavy and black. Paco's eyes, he thought. Small-boned. She stood a little past his shoulder – that he knew. Modestly small breasts, slender hips.  

He'd heard her nightclothes shift and rub together as she moved closer in order to speak in hushed tones. Paco was asleep.

_"Better, señor?" _

Her English was heavily accented but comprehensible all the same. He found he preferred the way Spanish flowed from her lips. How did her lips look?

His fingers reached up to find them. She'd made a small hum of protest as his fingertips traced their outline, but didn't move away.

One kiss, first. Her lips were soft and unmoving beneath his. He withdrew for a moment, waiting for her reaction. She was silent. He wished he could see her face. He kissed her again, stronger this time.

Her lips moved hesitantly against his, testing and tasting. He let out a soft groan at the purity of his pleasure and raised a hand to the back of her neck where her skin was silky and smooth, pressing her to him. 

She was the first to break away, abruptly and with sharp motions.

_"Buenos noches, señor."_

The next day she'd sent him on his way. He was healed.

-

Sands walked into his usual restaurant, El Caballo Morado. The name had always amused him. The Purple Horse.

He could hear people scurry from his path. They knew him here. They knew about the gun at his hip. 

He was a better shot blind than seeing. Much less to distract him with just his hearing to guide him.

He slid into an empty booth and when the waitress sidled up to him with a rustle of starched clothes he ordered as he always did. "Puerco Pibil and a tequila with lime, please." If the waitress didn't understand his order she pretended like she did and hurried away. He guessed that everyone here already knew what he wanted, anyway.

Time passed in the little restaurant. Sands drank his tequila and ate his pork. It was good, but not too good. Sands decided he liked that. He always kept his glass the same distance from his plate, separated his food so he always knew exactly what was going into his mouth.   

The annoying bell on the door jingled as it swung open. Sands caught a familiar scent, but dismissed it as a perfume he'd smelled before on one of his many lady conquests. It was not until someone eased into the seat across from him that Sands cocked his gun and aimed it right at the person's gut beneath the table.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The person was silent for a moment.

"Señor."

Sands nearly dropped his gun, but managed to hold his composure and slip it back into its holster. "You."

"Sí, me." It was Esperanza. 

Sands could think of nothing to say.

"So you are in Oaxaca now?" Her voice was the same, as was her presence, even as she spoke in English. He should have been able to recognize her by smell or sound before she spoke, then she would not have caught him off guard.

"What are you doing here?" Sands said coolly, picking up his fork where he'd left it and continuing with his meal with an air of nonchalance.

"Yo salgo con Paco. Nosotros iremos a los Estados Unidos." She reverted to Spanish. He was glad. She sounded more comfortable in her native language.

"Why? Just decide to up and leave on the spot? Running from something, Esperanza?" Sarcasm.

She was quiet. "El cártel está destruyendo la ciudad. Tuvimos que correr."

"Well isn't that fucking nice. Good for you. Now tell me why I should give a shit." Sands took a bite of his pork. He could feel her eyes on him, her disapproval. "What do you want? You want me to go back there and play the fucking hero? Not fucking likely, sugarbutt." 

"They are looking for you." Her voice. He hated her disdain.

"No shit, sherlock."

He heard her sigh and rise from the booth. She hesitated before walking away, clothes rustling as she stepped towards him. He flinched as the tip of her finger brushed over his face, across his forehead and down his cheek along the hairline. She smoothed a few renegade black strands back with a gentle hand. He longed for more, that kind touch all over him.

"La gente están muriendo, señor."

The people are dying.

Sands hunched away from her. "I told you already. I. Don't. Care."

She withdrew her hand and turned to walk out the door.

"Adiós, señor."

_Goodbye._

-

A/N – Here are the Spanish translations. I tried to hint their meaning within the story, but it still might be confusing. The use of "señor" in this story, by the way, is meant to be more of an endearing term than just "sir" or "mister". There's not really a proper translation for it in English, though. Just think of it as kind of a nickname. I'm just numbering the phrases in the order as they appear. I'll leave out the most obvious ones.

La Esperanza Ciega means blind hope

_Mis Dios. . . Sea fuerte, señor. __Sea fuerte._ – My God. . . Be strong, sir. Be strong.

_No me ayudas, entiendes?_ – Don't help me, understand?

_No, señor. Venido a mí, sí? Solamente un poco más lejos. Entonces usted puede descansar._ - No, sir. Come to me, yes? Only a little further. Then you can rest.

_Qu__ es, señor?_ - What is it, sir?

_Nada._ – Nothing.

_Estás seguro?_ – Are you sure?

_Buenos noches, señor._ – Good night, sir.

_Yo salgo con Paco. Nosotros iremos a los Estados Unidos._ – I am leaving with Paco. We will go to the United States.

_El cártel está destruyendo la ciudad.__ Tuvimos que correr._ – The cartel is destroying the city. We had to run.

_La gente están muriendo, señor. _– The people are dying, sir. 

I'm sorry if my Spanish isn't perfect. I've only take three years of high school classes and I'm not an expert yet. 

If some of the text (i.e. italics, spacing) is off it's my computer's fault. Sorry!

I would be very much obliged if I could get some feedback, por favor! I may do a second chapter to this if such an inspiration hits me. 


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